Idiosyncrasy
by telekineticBURN
Summary: or, The Drinking Buddy Conundrum. Weiss challenges Sydney to show her lighter side. (Sweiss, minor Sarkney)
1. Saint of Circumstance

Idiosyncrasy 

by RainbowGroupie (( Renny Wallace ))

_Rating_ : PG13, for language befitting a belligerent sailor on Mardi Gras  
_Spoilers_ : S3.22, "Resurrection"  
_Paring_ : Sweiss, and a pinch of Sarkney (bad pun, keep reading, bad pun...)

_Summary_ : Sydney tries to prove she can be goofy. Weiss offers commentary.

_ Takes place sometime after the events of S3.22 _"Resurrection_", though completely ignoring the final scene. If your into plot consistency, we'll just say the document Sydney was never supposed to find was Jack's secret fruitcake recipe. I mean, she cried over less last season, didn't she?_

-

_1.: Saint of Circumstance_

He was reciting the Guitar Groupie story again. She'd heard it before, he'd told it before, but it made little difference. This was rehab.

"So this girl, right, April. She only dated guitar players," he said patiently.

"Do you play?" she demanded.

"No, but that wasn't going to -"

"How about a kazoo? Kazoo's can be sexy," she observed, throwing back another shot.

"Kazoo? No, no, forget it, I'm not going to ask. Guitar. So I went up on stage, couldn't play a single note -"

"Was it a snafu?" she put in.

"What? Yeah. Yeah, fine, it was a snafu. So anyway, I got up there, sucked, got booed, couple'a beers thrown at me..." he continued, vision blurrying.

"I don't suppose you were in Kalamazoo at the time?" she asked hopefully.

"Shut up, OK? I'm trying to say this."

"You've already said it."

"So I was walking away in shame, right, in the parking lot. Biege Honda. I remember she drove a Honda. Out came April. She was late. Didn't hear me suck onstage -"

"Ooh, kinky! And you and Vaughn were roomies?"

"Sick, Agent Bristow. Anyway - didn't hear my failure at playing, only saw the guitar. We dated for almost a month," he finished, gesturing grandly with his tequila glass.

"You should have tried kazoo," she insisted. "It could have been a Kalamazoo Kazoo Snafu."

He stared at her until she shrieked with laughter.

"Uh! Oh, nice! You just sprayed tequila in my face."

"Then I guess I shouldn't tell you it went out my nose."

"No, Syd, no. You really shouldn't."

She dabbed a napkin at his head, caught his expression, and tumbled off the couch laughing.

"You just can't hold you're liquor, babe," he commented.

"Says the guy slumped over me."

He blinked at her. "Hey, how'd I get down here?"

"Through use of your magnificent hand-feet coordination."

"The elephant told me to."

"Were you awed by its pink majesty?"

"Trust you to be a coherent drunk."

"I prefer 'loquacious'."

Together they crawled back onto the couch.

"Weiss," he said.

"Bristow," she answered.

"No. Weiss. You always call me Weiss. How for?"

"It upholds an air of professional distance. It's - excuse me - it doesn't mean anything. I mean, I always call Vaughn Vaughn."

He nodded, then frowned. "Hey, by chance does this Vaughn Vaughn shake?"

"Mental pictures!" she howled.

After a moment's deliberation, he put away the tequila. When he sat down again, with her head resting against his shoulder, she barely noticed her shotglass being replaced with a mug of coffee.

-

He was drifting off to sleep when her eyes snapped open.

"I get silly when I'm drunk, don't I?"

"Yes. Very adorable. Quite a 180 from your normal self. Very endearing. Head splintering now. Please sleep," he muttered rapidly.

"A 180? Hello, NASCAR Dad."

"Hello, Mary Jane."

"No. Wait. I was indignant about the wrong thing. I meant, what do you mean, 180? I'm normally stoic and predictable?"

"Sometimes you cry. Or shoot people in the kneecaps. But generally, yeah. You contain your emotions until they explode. You lack sentiment ventilation," he said sagely.

"Forget NASCAR Dad. Heya, Dr. Ruth," she snorted.

"Oh, OK, then. Screw everything that moves. Get it out of your system. Feel the feminine power!" he exclaimed.

"Seriously, Weiss. Daytime television? Just say No," she cautioned.

He sputtered into laughter, collapsing against her.

Professional distance, said the break-dancing Loch Ness dodo.

"But I am, though. I'm completely predictable. Boring. In a rut," she listed.

"Good thing Barnett's back in town, then," he said sarcastically.

"I heard she was counselling Sloane before his arrest."

"For 2 weeks? Faith and begorrah, Syd, you know I have a gift for construing innuendos! Think of the children!"

Her head hurt too badly to laugh.

"Computable. Altruistic. Loyal. Apathetic. Prosaic. Dare I say, unequivocal!" she droned mournfully.

"Yes, Merriam. You can be a tad -"

"Torpid?"

"Law-abiding and self-debasing," he added. "But then you, say, hold the NSC ransom to bust your dad out of jail, or, more recently, break into a CIA holding facility and swipe a Rambaldi artifact that you've already swiped for the CIA, only to hand it over to Sark, whom you originally swope - sorry, swiped it from, in exchange for the child of your boss. That pretty well blows your Teacher's Pet rep to hell."

"Ooh, I have street cred'?" she quizzed sardonically.

He forced his eyes to focus, and held her gaze carefully.

"Dependable," he announced with finality. "You're dependable. Here endeth the lesson."

"I sent Vaughn to the hospital. That mean you'll send me to the morgue?"

"Remind me to have a chat with Blockbuster about revoking your membership."

"More tequila!"

-

They were nearing the 4th hour of their binge. Heavy night had fallen and a fire, if not crackling, was at least Snap and Popping before them. Weiss was meditating a stagger across the street to his house when Sydney jerked to attention beside him.

"Dependable, my ass, Mr. 10-hour-workday!" she snapped.

"And we're back," he groaned.

"I'm fun! I'm spontaneous! Those matching zebra stripes we wore on that mission to get intel from Cummings? Completely my idea!"

"Whoa, down thar, cowgirl. I'll have you know I looked damn good in that necktie."

"Stow it, Posh. I'm serious. I'm extremely erratic!"

"Double negative, Syd."

Without warning, she grabbed the empty tequila bottle, smashed the end against the end table, and brandished the jagged weapon at Weiss's torso.

Then began giggling furiously.

Then toppled onto the floor. Again.

"Cannot. Hold. My liquor," she grunted.

He stared down at her with a indescipherable expression on his face. Indescipherable, perhaps, because she was drunk out of her freakin' mind. Sober Sydney would have known that look instantly; Amusement, curiousity, affection.

"Alright, then," he said, prodding her lightly in the rips with his toe.

"Say who?"

"'Say what'," he corrected.

"Say what?" she conceded.

"Alright. You'll be spontaneous, then. Tomorrow morning. After the daily briefing. I want you to march up to Marshall and tell him he's a 'little, hunksome slab of pure animal, you foxy Inspector Gidget, you'. Think you can handle that," he said, "or are you to... Dependable?"

They glared at eachother in challenge. Before Sydney erupted into another onslaught of giggles.

"I don't think you're using the word 'spontaneous' correctly," she pointed out. "And isn't Gidget a 50s teenager with the hots for a surfer dude named Moondoggie? I think you meant Inspector Gadget, as portrayed by Matthew Broderick in the 1999 film version."

"Really! Blockbuster : Stop The Violence Now!" he shouted.

She was blushing. And, holy hell, did she look beautiful.

The terms 'drinking buddy' and 'best-friend figure' buzzed in his ears. Screw the Judith Martin rules of ettiquet, he thought. Who _wouldn't_ want to perform a modified Heimlich on this woman?

"You're on," she said.

"Say who?" he stuttered.

"'Say what'," she corrected.

"Moving onward, ever onward..."

"I said, you're on. I'll do it. Anything else you'd have me say to prove my untethered free spirit?"

He leaned back, stroking his chin comically.

"Quit grinning at me and tell me the plan, fatboy," she declared.

"Three challenges," he decided. "You will fulfill three vaguely humiliating and possibly manic tasks, whenever applicable, which I will instruct by whim. Should you fail to comply with my instructions, you lose the bet."

"Oh, now it's a bet? I just figured it was an ill-conceived scheme of two people experiencing an early mid-life crisis," she said wryly.

"No, it has to be a bet. It sounds more like a teen dramedy that way."

"As I said, mid-life crisis."

"You lose, you have to invite Mike, Sloane, and your Dad over to dinner on a Friday night," he announced. "And if you win?"

Sydney smiled, cat-like. He waited apprehensively.

"If I win," she said, "_You_ have to wear the spandex on our next mission."


	2. Attics of My Life

_2.: Attics of My Life_

"I thought you destroyed the plasma charge prototype," he croaked.

"I did," she rasped.

"Then who detonated one in my head?"

"Drama queen."

"Prom queen."

Their eyes shot open in unison.

"You drooled on me," she accused.

"Your elbow is in my pancreas."

"Reciting imagined afflictions does not an apology make."

"Coffee, Syd. Think coffee."

Eventually they disengtangled, stumbling off the couch, hair dishevelled and clothes wrinkled, the heavy stench of alcohol on their breath. She readied the coffee maker while he dug out a half-empty box of Lucky Charms.

Head spinning, Weiss took one look at Sydney, and burst into muffled laughter.

"Damn," she said morosely. "I was hoping you'd have forgotten the bet."

"Dixon's probably sending us out again soon. He's got a helluva vendetta against Blondie now," he said unnecessarily. "You can perform your first task when Marshal hands out optech."

"You were unloved as a child, weren't you?" she muttered.

-

The circles under her eyes could be concealed by makeup, the staleness of her breath masked by peppermint. The stumble in her walk hidden by her never-failing grace.

Weiss, though. Weiss just looked like crap.

Sydney was already seated primly in her seat by the time he moseyed into the conference room. The last to arrive, he fell down beside her like a roof shingler celebrating Oktoberfest.

Dixon, bless him, didn't comment.

"We received intel this morning about a planned weapons trade between the Coventant and some free-lancers out of Schwerin," the director began. "The deal goes down tonight in the western district of Desdren. We intend to intercept the sellers before they can meet with Covenant agents, and then persuade them to –"

Weiss tugged absently on his creased tie, blinking incessantly.

"-the contact information. Once procured, Sydney and Jack will meet with the Covenant, posing as the sellers. Weiss, you're on comms. The Covenant agents will be heavily armed, so –"

He discreetly turned his head left, right, up, down. Vision faded momentarily and his headache intensified.

"-would leave Vaughn completely defenseless. No, I want Sydney there. It's an acceptable risk, Jack. Surely the Covenant has agents other than Sark. Besides, she'd be –"

He drew a cartoon duck on the open file in front of him. After a moment's deliberation, he gave it a bazooka to brandish.

"-no, Sydney, you do not have permission to shoot on sight, Sark could have valuable information about-"

He took a sip from his tepid glass of water, inspecting his distorted reflection shining off the tabletop.

"-of course there's no definitive intel on who the Covenant agent will be, that's the whole point, Vaughn –"

Sydney kicked his shin.

He looked up to a roomfull of expectant stares.

"Well, can you?" Dixon asked impatiently.

Weiss cleared his throat hesitantly. "Sure," he said.

-

"What, where, why, who?" he hissed into Sydney's ear, rushing after her.

"Black op, Dresdan, pose as criminals selling a Rambaldi artifact, Covenant agent who may or may not be Sark," she answered, walking briskly toward her desk.

"Gotcha."

"You volunteered to rewire the entire security system in the nightclub, in two minutes, without being detected," Sydney said, efficiently stacking files.

"Why the hell?"

"You're hung over. Feet off the desk," she ordered.

"Right. When do we leave?"

"After lunch."

"Sandwiches?"

"Salad."

"Heathen," he said.

"Fatboy," she replied.

Weiss propped his feet up on her chair. "I have a task," he announced.

"Right. 'Cause your last diet worked so well."

"What is this, Cheap Shot Day?"

"Your originality is staggering."

"Jack's telling us the mission coordinates on the plane, bitter control freak that he is, right?" he asked, fiddling with (breaking) her pencils.

"Yes. And for the record, I'm offended."

"I've noticed," he said slowly, grinning, "Jack never really gets right to the point, does he? He always explains the backstory, or the Agency protocol, before he tells us what he thinks we should do."

"He's very dedicated to his work. He likes to be thorough," Sydney said, unconcerned.

Unconcerned, that is, until she noticed his Chesire smile.

"I think you'd best perform one of your tasks today," he told her. "The Marshall line can wait. This is infinitely better."

Feeling a black wash of dread, Syd leaned forward to hear his insructions.

The surrounding cubicles of staffers glanced over in surprise when Agent S. Bristow bellowed, "I know sixteen different ways of killing someone with a shoelace! Not to mention the damage I could do with a waffle iron!"

Agent Weiss, seated opposite her, remained impassive.

Untethered free spirit. That was one way of putting it.

-

They would be landing in Germany in 40 minutes. Jack cleared his throat, rousing the agents from their respective stupors. He clutched in his hands a menacingly thick standard-sized filing folder, authoritively paperclipped shut.

Perhaps, Weiss reasoned, he was overreacting about the damned folder. But tell that to somebody who wasn't on deck to disarm a despicably intricate sercurity system.

He still didn't exactly know why that was necassary.

"There's a nightclub located in the downtown Rampische Strasse district of Desdren," Jack stated precisely. Sydney nodded, apparently knowing something Weiss didn't.

Like geography.

Or German.

Or German geography.

Weiss really wanted to go to bed.

Jack passed out a set of photographs between the two agents. Weiss inspected them critically : a blue-haired goth and a platinum bimbo. He dubbed them Punch and Judy.

"Lukas Abendroth and Emilie Koehler. Petty criminals : a robbery or two, some minor bank fraud, some drug trafficking. Nothing to lose sleep over. The pair recently discovered – quite by accident – a minor Rambaldi artifact hidden in the basement of the mansion owned by a German dilettante of little consequence. Our intel didn't specify what the artifact actually is, but the manner of its discovery suggest something minor. Since it is doubtful the Covenant will send any high-ranking agents to retrieve it, instead of arresting them at the point of purchase, Sydney will place an undetectable tracking device on the artifact before selling it to the Covenant, posing as Koehler. I'll be patrolling the crowd, just in case.

"Weiss, you're on comms. Once incompacitated, Abendroth and Koehler will be placed under your watch in the communications van. We'll have to nab them while in the actual nightclub, so you're required to tap into the club's security system and erase any video containing Sydney or I apprehending the dealers.

"Now, agency protocol dictates that we –"

Weiss subtlely nodded at Sydney.

"-use as little force as neccassary to restrain the two sellers. That said, Sydney, it is my suggestion however that we knock them unconscious upon sighting, rather than deal with the chance of them tipping off the Covenant agent."

Weiss cleared his throat. Sydney glared at him.

"Sydney, you are not to engage in combat with the Covenant agent. You are not to grill him or her for information. You goal is to make as little an impression as possible."

Weiss covered his mouth with his fist, coughing distinctly. Sydney bit her lip.

"Now, a little history before we continue. Lukas Abendroth was born in Strasbourg, has been a career criminal since the age of 19. Made a minor name for himself as a drug runner during the –"

"I don't need your life story, Jackie-O! Just tell me the friggin' plan!" she shouted suddenly.

Challenge #1 complete. Silence reigned as Jack stared in blatant shock as his daughter, who was blushing rabidly.

Jack seemed utterly incomprehending. He didn't move and didn't blink.

"We land in forty minutes," he announced finally, and walked toward the pilot's cabin in a daze.

Weiss howled.

"Perfect! That was perfect! Damn, this'll be well worth the spandex," he snorted.

Sydney hid her face behind her copy of the mission specs. Despite her vailant efforts, he could clearly hear her giggling.

After what seemed like a decade of helpless, hysteric laughter, the two binge buddies leaned easily against eachother, Sydney's head again resting on his shoulder.

"The second task had better be more original than the last one," she cautioned.

"Stoned much? That was classic. Don't mess with what works," he argued.

"What if what works doesn't anymore?"

"Yeah, Syd, I talked to Vaughn." He shrugged. "Said you two were getting back together. Nice subject switch, by the by."

"Spy training. The KGB Method rocks my socks."

"He loves you, babe. Always has. That's not the issue."

"Okay, Glinda, what's the issue?"

"Can you two ever get back to picnics and Valentines?"

She didn't have an answer. Weiss didn't expect she would.

"This whole time," she said slowly. "I though I missed him. I _did_ miss him, so much. I mean, I was seriously considering breaking up his marriage, I wanted him back so bad."

"I think you'd have gotten an exemption for that part, anyway. His wife being all Judas-meets-Vader, I doubt anyone would have minded."

"The black eyeliner really should have tipped us off sooner."

"Agreed."

"But now that Lauren's dead… what? What's stopping us? I spent all this time yearning and crying and bitching about how I lost my whole life, but now that I can have it back… it doesn't _fit_ anymore."

Weiss roped his arm around her waist. "It doesn't have to, Syd. It doesn't have to go back to the way it was. Two years is a long time." He paused, searching futilely for something profound. "Just because you stopped loving Vaughn doesn't mean you can't start loving someone else."

Sydney laughed softly at this, nodding faintly. Weiss suddenly stood.

"I'm gonna go check on Jack. See if he's blinking yet," he said distractedly, turning away.

She called after him. "Thanks, Eric."

* * *

_**Author's Note**: This will be continued as soon as possible. College being so murderous, I normally don't have much time to write, but, it being the hollidays, I have plenty of relatives to avoid while I'm home and should thus have some free time. Let's just hope my muse doesn't go on strike.  
Also, in case you were wondering why all the chapters are named after Grateful Dead songs… can you guess what I listen to while I write?  
Merry christmas!  
Cheers,  
Renny_


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